by Sean O'Kane
Gina was a weird mix of slave and jealous mistress; she must have kept closer tabs on Guy than even he suspected. She had ‘overheard’ a phone conversation when I had rung Guy, she had heard him call me by name, she had also heard a lot of other names, including that of one of my master’s businesses and once Guy was out of the way she had rung it and by sheer persistence had got through to the master himself. It was clear that she only saw it as infidelity and had no idea of what she had really overheard. Still, it was enough.
By the time she had finished I was leaning against the doorjamb for support. My master made out a cheque for Gina and thanked her for having come to him. She took it and pushed roughly past me and Miss Dexter hurried after to see her out.
My master stood up from behind the desk. “Well?” he asked
Gina had only touched on some aspects of the story, she hadn’t been there when I begged Guy to take me as a slave, she only suspected something between us after that session at the hotel but I felt an overwhelming need to unburden myself of everything and just let things take their course. I couldn’t fight any more and so I told him everything, going right back to my exclusive on Guy, the session, how I had begged him to take me, and how he had blackmailed me.
A powerful man like Gerald Hardcastle is no joke to be around when he literally shakes with pent up fury, as he did then. Apart from any sexual treachery, for six months his every move had been known to his rivals and competitors. And all I had to protect myself was my desire to take my punishment once and for all and to give him what pleasure I could while he did what he had to.
“If it’ll give you any fun, I’ll fight you,” I told him as he advanced on me.
It came out all wrong, I meant it with heart-felt sincerity but he must have interpreted it as ‘fuck you’ sullen defiance because the dam of his fury broke instantly.
I was dragged by my hair, kicking and screaming in genuine fear from the office, down the main stairs, along past the pool and then down to the dungeon. We rolled and fought there for a while as he ripped my clothes off with a strength I had never encountered in him before, and to which I responded even through my fear. At last though, I lay in a tangled heap on the carpet, naked apart from laddered stockings. I looked up at him through a curtain of tangled hair, “Go on! Do it!” I urged him and then shrieked as he dragged me up and pushed me towards an upright rectangular frame; one that had a studded beam across it at breast height.
I managed another fight to make him exert himself before he could cuff and restrain my wrists and ankles to the corners. By then we were both panting for breath, but at least my master looked back in control of himself and had lost that drawn look I had hated to see. He was flushed and furious still, but at least he was where he liked to be. Sure he was going to take everything out on me - and why not - but at least he would enjoy himself now instead of just doing it as a duty.
Miss Dexter came in with a pile of folders.
“Right, you lying treacherous little bitch!” my master spat at me, “you’re going to tell me everything you told that bastard! Everything! Miss Dexter, find me the Grosvenor file!”
I just clenched my teeth and prepared to hold out as best I could, so he would enjoy torturing me.
He went behind me and I heard him go to the whip rack. I glanced at Miss Dexter and saw she was spreading out the folders and getting ready to take notes. It was going to be a long and very painful session. There were a lot of files I was to be interrogated about.
I was distracted from that line of thought though as my first flogging got underway. Usually in our dungeon sessions the whips were used to warm up and sensitise the area of the body the master wanted to work on later. But this time he set off at full punishment strength. He used one of the thin bladed floggers and worked it hard across my back and buttocks, making me jerk forward as each lash slapped into me. I welcomed the burn and bite of the leathers and had no trouble in experiencing it all as pure pain, especially when he finished off with three scything upper cuts between my legs. I was still recovering from the shock of that scalding pain when he came to stand just the other side of the studded bar across my chest, reached out, hooked my nipple rings with his fingers and dragged my breasts out across the studs, then pulled them down. I shrieked again as I felt the studs begin to dig into their undersides.
He left one nipple and held the other while he reached to one side of the frame and took down a length of chain with a hook at each end and attached it to the ring. Then he did the same with the other. I braced myself for what I was sure would follow, and sure enough he went to one wall and took down several of the long steel weights I had always loved to hate. He placed them on the beam in a pile and then picked just one up and hung it on the end of one chain. I sucked in my breath as one nipple was elongated and its breast was pulled down onto the studs even harder.
“Now, you slut! The Grosvenor project. What did you tell him and when?”
Before I could even frame an answer another weight was hung off the other nipple and he was reaching for more. Desperately I racked my brains, even as a third and fourth weight were added. I glanced down and saw my nipples extended into grotesquely long pink tubes with the holes the rings passed through clearly visible. They hurt with a sharpness I hadn’t experienced before and my stomach clenched in fear, but at least that freed my tongue. I began to babble out everything I could remember while remorselessly more weights were added until my breasts were stretched into almost flat wedges of flesh across the beam and the nipples themselves had all but disappeared over the far edge.
“Please! I don’t remember any more!” I screamed.
“Did you get all that down, Miss Dexter? Good. Then we’ll move on to the Pro-Con launch, in just a minute.”
Oh God! The launch of some industrial software which had been ‘mysteriously’ forestalled by another company. How much Guy made on that I never did find out but I tried to marshal my thoughts against the intensity of pain from my tortured breasts, then sobbed in despair when I saw him approaching me with a riding crop. I opened my mouth to beg but could only scream instead as he flicked the keeper down across each breast in turn, stinging the stretched flesh and driving the studs in even harder. He did it twice more before I was sagging in my chains and he was removing the weights and unhooking the chains. But then he turned his attention below stairs.
He ducked down and I felt the chains being hooked onto my labial rings. I didn’t wait. I began to mumble everything I knew about Pro-Con regardless of whether it was any part of what I had told Guy. But even as I gabbled the weights went on… and on. There was a searing pain from where the rings went through the flesh and panic was rising in my throat but I kept babbling faster and faster until I reached the end in a shrill scream.
“I got the bitch’s every word, sir,” I heard Miss Dexter’s voice call.
Slowly the pressure was released as the weights came off and I breathed out in relief as my ankles and wrists were freed. My master walked off then to prepare my next torment and left me to peel my own throbbing breasts off that wretched bar and marvel at the fact that I still had any. A quick exploration between my legs reassured me that I still had my vulva intact. But then my master was coming for me again.
He pushed me over to a bench, whirled me round and made me sit down on its cold leather top.
“The plant in Aylesbury next,” he announced as he lifted and spread my legs, strapping them into stirrups mounted on the end of the bench. I made no move to struggle and propped myself up on my arms while he worked, trying just to get my breath back. I didn’t think for one second that my crotch or breasts had had their full ration for the day and was not surprised to see him go for the whip again and come to stand between my open legs. I shifted my arms behind me to get comfortable. I knew he wanted me to sit up so I could see the lashes landing on my already throbbing sex which was so naked and vulnerable.
I gritted my teeth again and grimaced in defiance. I had always had a good tolerance of the whip, so he would enjoy giving me a good thrashing before I broke this time.
He raised his arm and brought the lashes down. I grunted as the scarlet blades of pain exploded inside me. But I kept my eyes open and defied him to do his worst. Again and again he lashed at me and at last I couldn’t take any more.
My confession that time was punctuated by cries as he continued with the whip, “The Oxford meeting… Aah! I told him about the costings… Aah!” And so on until finally he stood back and I was allowed to collapse backwards, panting and sweating heavily while my hands cupped my abused and swollen lips. To the best of my dazed recall I had taken over thirty lashes. But almost immediately he was raising and cuffing my wrists and we were off again.
This time he went back to work on my breasts. He put them in the press and screwed it down till the bars squeezed my boobs into flattened travesties of their normal shape, immediately I could feel the blood pound in them and knew that within minutes they would start to darken and tighten even more against the brutal steel. But in the meantime I had the needles to contend with. He put three through each areola. With all his usual slow deliberation he took pinches of skin and threaded the sharp little points through. To my mind needle play is all about how it looks, not just the sensation of the sharp points pushing slowly at the flesh and then bursting through with their sharp jolts of pain. And even though I knew that my master’s anger would rob me of any pleasure, I craned my head up to watch and gasp at each sharp prick of pain on entry and exit. He worked in silence and I knew the questioning would only start again when something worse was done. Indeed once my breasts were pounding and darkened to a deep pink shading into purple and the piercings were throbbing, he produced two large candles and lit them.
“Oh, no! Please!” I begged.
“Miss Dexter, get the Salford file!”
However hardened I have become to the whip, I have never got used to hot waxing. The sunburst of pain as each drop hits you and then intensifies before the heat dissipates, is to me a new agony each time I undergo it.
I began to babble everything I knew about the takeover of one of the master’s subsidiary companies by a competitor. And all the time he tilted the candles each time the wax built up and let the scalding drops fall over nipples, areola and the breasts themselves.
“That’s all, master!” I shrieked when I had come to the end of everything I could think of.
All he did was go and stand between my open legs.
“Who the fuck cares, Emma?” he said. “What I paid Ben for you isn’t one tenth of what you’ve cost me! I’m going to get my money’s worth.”
I watched him hold up the candles and begin to tip them, then I put my head back and howled as the wax cascaded down over my clitoris, my already swollen labia, my inner thighs. My whole genital region was a blaze of pain under a stiff coating by the time he had finished and even my throat hurt from screaming. But at least that seemed to calm him down somewhat and the last part of my inquisition was carried out under a partial breast suspension, rings and chains attached to the needles and then hauled up tight to a beam overhead so that a good part of the weight of my torso hung from my suffused and pounding breasts. The questions went on and on, punctuated by slashes of the riding crop and my answering shrieks of pain which were followed by a whispered confession. At long last all the wax around my belly and my breasts had been sheared off, but the beating went on and I lay with my eyes closed and bucked my pelvis up to accept the next lash of pain. And at last I came. Behind my closed eyelids I bathed in the seething mass of aches and pains and eventually let myself drown in them as I heard my master’s voice resume its normal quiet authority as he instructed Miss Dexter to come to him. I felt that I had paid my debt, ridden out the storm and now everything would be all right again.
But when I finally opened my eyes again, I could hardly believe them. Miss Dexter was kneeling in front the master and taking long, slow sucks of his stiffly jutting erection. As I watched in amazed horror, he put his head back and began to spend himself in her mouth. She made mewing noises of delight as he spurted into her and she ducked her head to cram as much of him into her as she could.
As he finished pumping, he smiled down at me while Miss Dexter dutifully licked him clean.
“Now, Emma. I’m going to punish you.”
Terror and excitement immediately had my blood pounding. I knew what he meant; I had told him all my professional treachery, now there was the fact that I had betrayed a master.
He undid all my bonds and I cried out all over again as the breast press was loosened and then I had to remove the needles myself, a task which was as exciting as it was painful. Then I hobbled after him all the way up to the playroom, splaying my legs and waddling to allow some air to cool the tortured flesh between them. But once we were in the echoing space of the playroom, I forgot all my existing pains. My wrists were raised and clipped to a single chain which was then pulled up until I was on tiptoe. That meant only one thing; a full body whipping. With my wrists joined and with my toes just able to get enough purchase on the floor, I would be susceptible to every flinch and twist a girl is liable to perform under a hard flogging and that would in effect allow my own body to condemn itself to receive the next lash on whichever bit was presented. But at least my master was back with me, taking his pleasure with me and I knew how I would respond when I saw him take down his favourite whip.
“Master,” I whispered hoarsely. “I’m afraid I’ll come under this punishment.”
He let the full length of the lash uncoil over the floor and watched my involuntary shudder. “You may. It makes no difference.”
Then I knew I was in for a really hard punishment. He was quite well aware that repeated climaxes under a whip like that are every bit as exhausting as the punishment itself.
And sure enough he started on my back using every bit of his artistry to curl it around my ribs as well as crack it across my back itself and soon I was twisting on the end of my chain and the frayed tip was carving marks on my stomach. He shifted to my buttocks and made me jerk one leg up and then the other as he worked on them and my flanks. Sometimes he would flick in a quick lash before my leg was down and the tip would wrap round a thigh and bury itself gleefully directly in my sex and send me hysterically and helplessly spinning and hopping. Then he went back up to my shoulders, catching me by surprise and making twist almost right round in pain, so that I caught the next one across my stretched taut breasts. I could no longer scream so even when I came as a flurry of lashes cracked across my delta, I made no sound.
He gave me pauses to get my breath back every now and then. But as soon as my head was up again; he struck, and I went back into my agonised dance. At last even my well-developed responses to whipping failed me. I could no longer tell what was pain or pleasure, I could no longer even hear the whip striking, I simply hung inert; absorbing the continuing flogging and enduring. I have subsequently seen the video of that monumental whipping and it is one of the most exciting things I have ever seen. By the time the slender figure dangling on the end of its chain is finally still, only the faintest twitches registering the impacts of the whip, it is striped from neck to knees, front, back and sides. Small rivulets of crimson trickle from cuts where some welts cross and the head hangs forwards between the straining shoulders.
But what made me come instantly when I watched it was the sound that filled the room when the master approached his whipped-raw slave, it was the hoarse sound of the girl rasping out her thanks.
The following day I was allowed to remain naked and in my room. I spent most of it under the shower or in the bath, easing off the soreness. Miss Dexter came and went, looking very much more relaxed and calmer than I had ever seen her before, and it didn’t take a genius to work out why. Through her I got a message to my master to say that i
f he looked in my handbag in the office he would find proof of how devoted I was to him, all appearances to the contrary. I knew he would find a substantial amount of cash and a name and address. The journalist contacts I had renewed in London were all investigative and they had provided me with the name of a well-known hit man, with whom I had agreed the price of working Guy over enough to silence him. Pretty desperate I know, but it had been all I could think of.
Master Gerald came to see me in the afternoon. I sat naked on my bed while he prowled round the room.
“What am I to do with you, Emma? I’ve checked on your story but it doesn’t alter the fact that you, and no one else but you, got yourself into this, and the damage you’ve done…” He let the sentence hang in the air between us. “And of course you’ll have to answer to Ben.”
I nodded miserably; I had known I would sooner or later.
But any fear of that encounter was driven out of my mind by being told to undress him. He took me on the bed; his weight on me re-igniting the fires of my weals and I groaned and heaved under him in a long and luxurious series of orgasms until at last he spent himself deep inside me and I slept happily afterwards.
At the end of a week I was pretty well back to normal, apart from a spectacular display of bruises which were nevertheless fading. But the household had changed, I was no longer required to work with the master and sat, bored and frustrated in my room. At last I began to read over the diaries which recounted my downfall and began to make the notes which formed the basis of the story you are now reading. It also became obvious that Miss Dexter - Julia as I now had to learn to call her - had supplanted me. She was sent to me most nights when the master had finished with her and in the dark she climbed into bed beside me - no longer the master’s servant in authority over me; now a sister slave. It was the master’s way of comforting me while he thought about what to do, and each time she came to me I would seek out the traces of him, exploring her body in the dark, finding out which entrance he had used and licking his seed from her while my fingers traced the ridges of her floggings and canings. And as she progressed, I frequently found my fingers tracing the deep grooves that ropes had carved into her breastflesh during a suspension or bondage session.
